


The Soul of Sweet Delight

by iiintangible



Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Anal Fingering, Cock Warming, Dom/sub, Face Slapping, Incest, M/M, Orgasm Denial, Rough Oral Sex, Spoilers, Under-negotiated Kink, Verbal Humiliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-18
Updated: 2019-03-18
Packaged: 2019-11-23 11:22:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18151220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iiintangible/pseuds/iiintangible
Summary: The burden of V's stare, like the scrape of a knife, followed Dante as he moved through the office; its sharpness was unmistakable against Dante’s skin.





	The Soul of Sweet Delight

**Author's Note:**

> i forgot to say this when i first posted, but thank you [SenkoWakimarin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SenkoWakimarin/pseuds/SenkoWakimarin) for 1) listening to me outline the entire plot of every single dmc game and novel and then 2) using that information to a) [write me this Vergil/Dante fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18149618), which all of you should go read immediately, AND b) encourage me to complete this fic over the course of several days of whining. you are the real mvp, my dear.

The day after V came bearing news of Vergil’s return, a heat wave rolled in from the south. The temperatures were out of season, too high for the first blush of spring. When Dante slumped down the stairs to start turning on fans, he found V sitting in the chair by the window. He was framed by the early glow of morning, looking cool despite the feverishness of the air.

“Don’t break into my office,” Dante said, balefully, though there was no evidence he’d done any such thing.

“You didn’t lock the door.”

“Touche. What the hell do you want?”

V’s expression took on a vaguely apologetic air. He tapped his cane, idly, against the chair leg.

“I am afraid that we will have little time to act once Urizen ascends. It would most benefit us to be ready to move quickly.”

“Sure, sure. And?”

“Nothing more.”

“Whatever. Just don’t piss on my carpet.”

V spent the rest of the day and evening reading, only speaking when spoken to. He pretended not to watch Dante when Dante was not looking, though Dante knew full well he was. The burden of his stare, like the scrape of a knife, followed Dante as he moved through the office; its sharpness was unmistakable against Dante’s skin.

 

* * *

 

Dante woke covered in a thick glaze of sweat, his sheets in a wet tangle between his legs. He had drawn the curtains before he’d taken himself to bed, and so the sunlight that shifted beyond the room poured in muted and greyed and told him nothing of the time.

He had had a nightmare again. Had had one every night since V first darkened his doorstep, to tell him that Vergil still lived. The details were lost to him; he only felt the effects, a deep malaise and sense of disquiet that dogged his morning hours.

The clock on his bedside table informed him that he’d slept past noon. He rinsed his face with cold water, brushed his teeth. Avoided looking at himself in the mirror. V was already in the office when he went downstairs.

“Today?” he asked.

“No,” V said, turning the page of his book. “Not today.”

 

* * *

 

A week passed. The heat remained. V arrived in the morning; V took his leave at night. During the hours that passed between his coming and his going, Dante went about his business as best he could manage, ignoring the strange presence that had taken up vigil in his armchair.

 

* * *

 

From the back office, the muted sounds of a newscast rose towards them, gently; it was the only noise in the room save the idle sounds of traffic, the whirring of the desk fan, the sound of V’s steady breathing.

Dante slammed his fist against the desktop, desperate to shatter the quiet. V, who had seemingly been napping for the better part of an hour, did not flinch, but opened his eyes as calm as if Dante had only called his name.

“I can’t stand this anymore,” Dante said. He thought he might punch the desk right in half, if he had to wait one more goddamn second.

“You are growing impatient.”

“No shit. No _shit._ Way to hit the nail on the fucking head.”

V sighed, and for a moment was still. He looked contrite, apologetic, for refusing to meet Dante’s anger and frustration with his own.

“You must understand. It will be impossible to draw Urizen out; he has waited too long, that time no longer matters. His patience is infinite. He will reveal himself only when his victory is assured.”

“Sure,” Dante said.

“So we must wait, as well.”

“Right.”

He had spent so many years thinking Vergil dead. Why, then, did it matter, knowing he was not? The outcome remained the same. Yet each minute passed was felt as a minute wasted, and all of them settled, squirming, in the hollow of his heart.

V shifted in his seat.

“Will you have difficulty killing him?”

Dante scoffed. “What do you think?”

“He is your brother, Dante.”

“I _know_ who he is.”

He stopped. Rubbed his jaw and the light stubble there. For a moment, he had been startled into rawness, into honest grief. The anger splintered. He was tired and hot, and he wished he could put his brother and all things concerning him to rest. “Doesn’t make a damn bit of difference.”

From across the room, V’s dark eyes found Dante’s. Even in the weak yellow lamplight Dante was pierced through by the bald longing that was there, somehow birthed in the sore space between them. As though he had been given the key to a tumbler lock, suddenly the anomalies of the last few days aligned. The way V’s eyes seemed always to follow him. The persistence of V’s presence. The tension, always, of their shared stillness, and how V seemed to savor the taste of his name.

The nature of the room’s heat shifted. Dante became aware of the rapidity of his heartbeat.

The corner of V’s mouth ticked up. Dante felt utterly seen. He dragged his gaze along Dante’s every inch, from the tips of his boots to the top of head, and sat back in his chair with the gravity of a king.

So that was how it was.

 

* * *

 

V was attractive, he supposed. At least in the objective sense.

Dante peered from the back office as V rose to adjust the curtains, let himself see V and consider his lot.

He lacked the muscle and the hard lines that Dante tended to prefer in his partners. He lacked the age and, maybe, the experience that might enhance his appeal. His face and form were pleasant enough, though, and he did have a way of holding himself, with an air of arrogance and competence, that Dante found arresting. If it could be wielded in the right direction, then - perhaps.

That night, as V bid him farewell, he eased himself into the space Dante kept between them. Dante, uncertain, let V take up one of his hands up and hold it.

“Uh,” he said.

V gazed down at their joined hands. He stroked his slim thumb over the knots of Dante’s knuckles, his touch warm and dry. For a moment Dante thought he might bring it to his lips, press a kiss there; when he merely let Dante’s hand fall away, Dante worried at the dismay he felt, that nothing else had proceeded.

“Sleep well, hunter,” V said.

His touch seemed to linger long into the night. When Dante woke the next morning, he was hard, and he had no memory of dreaming.

 

* * *

 

“I’m not interested,” Dante said.

V glanced at him from across the room, sat as he was in what had become, to Dante’s mind, his normal chair. For a moment he seemed as though he might close his book, his fingertips brushing the edges of the pages.

“Aren’t you?” V asked.

“Listen. You’re barking up the wrong tree, little guy. No offense, but you seem like you got a type, and I ain’t nobody’s daddy.”

V smiled. It was an expression that unfolded across his face, slow, like the blossoming of a flower. He stared at Dante, a cold current to the dark of his eyes, the way a snake might consider a mouse. His teeth were too blunt for such a predatory look.

“Don’t misunderstand me,” V said. “I know what kind of man you are. You’re what they call an easy read.”

“I don't sleep with clients,” Dante protested.

“You'll make an exception then, of course.”

Presumptuous of him. Bossy. He thought of denying it.

“You're kind of a bastard,” he said, instead.

V snapped the book held in his hand shut. Uncrossed his legs and sat back, the picture of confidence, his thin body positioned into an artful lounge.

“And you’re rather ungrateful. Your water is back on, thanks to me. Why not go and take a shower, Dante? You're no good to me if you are unclean.”

 

* * *

 

Dante hurried upstairs. He hoped that it wasn’t obvious that he was hurrying.

He stripped himself and stepped into the shower. Cranked the knob all the way to the left. The water ran cool for a moment, then went steaming hot. He sighed into it, the burn that made his skin go red. It had been a while since he’d had a water heater and water at the same time.

With only a washcloth and the lather of a sliver of green bar soap, he scrubbed himself down, prefunctoral and quick. His shampoo bottles were all empty; he rinsed his hair, then worked the last of the bar into his scalp. Then that, too, he rinsed away; watched the last of the suds swirl the drain, then disappear under the fall of clean water.

Only about five minutes had passed.

 _Eager_ , he heard V’s voice say, a low rumble in the back of his mind. _Fuck you_ , he thought in reply. But he was. He felt as though his blood was ringing, like a chorus of little bells; a wild vibration thrumming just beneath the surface of his skin. A little like courting the Devil Trigger; skirting the edge of a great conflagration, wanting to be consumed.

He dicked around for a little while longer. Thought about shaving, both his face and his chest. He went so far as to dig out a razor and bottle of shaving gel before he realized what it would look like, to go back to V clean-shaven. It was too much effort to put into one quick, off-the-cuff fuck.

He ditched the razor.

But the shaving gel - he considered it for some time. Held the plastic in his hands while the water spray gradually cooled around him. Under the sway of the shower, of the promise he’d found in V’s command, he let himself imagine using the gel to work himself open on his fingers; relished the pleasure of it, and the shame of it, his cock twitching in interest.

Some long-buried part of him insisted that he wasn’t this easy. But he had let the game progress: by giving in, by following as he had been lead. Without risk, there would be no reward.

Dante stood outside the wash of the spray and poured a generous amount of gel onto his fingers. It was slightly tacky, and had been warmed by his body heat and by the water’s steam.

He reached behind himself, rubbed a fingertip against the pliant muscle of his hole. The gel helped to ease his entrance; with little pressure, he slid inside. The sting was sharp and welcome; he moved into it, shifting his hips to take it deeper. But the angle was bad. His fingernail was jagged, bitten down, and that made it painful in a way he didn’t like.

He pressed himself flat against the shower wall. Tried to thrust into himself in a way offered more stretch to the muscle, and then, in a sudden rush of greed, added a second finger, a third. The fullness of it was gratifying, but. No, it was not enough. Never enough.

He pulled his fingers free and slammed the water off. He didn’t have any clean towels, and so he had to wipe the water from his body, to shake his head dry like a dog.

 

* * *

 

He toyed with the idea of taking V to his bedroom. It might be nice to get fucked into his own mattress. But the thought of crawling alongside someone else into the expanse of his bed, with its unwashed sheets and pillow cases, filled him with a kind of shame that he couldn’t transform into any kind of satisfaction.

He went down to lead V from the front office and into the break room instead. There was soft carpeting and an old, lumpy couch there, where he took most of his naps in the afternoons. There were no windows.

V gave him an appraising look once the break room door had been shut.

“You clean up well enough, I suppose,” he said.

Dante had redressed in his leathers and a thin t-shirt bearing a brand of soda he'd grown a taste for. None of it was clean, but it was cleaner than anything else in his office had been since he could last afford to turn on the washer. Still, the praise (the subtle dig, the cold wave of humiliation) caused a tickle of pleasure along his forearms and in the small of his back, and he felt it as well and as deeply in his gut, where his arousal had been laying dormant since he'd fingered himself in the shower.

“You got me,” he said. He rolled his shoulders. “This is as good as it gets, take it or leave it.”

“Don’t worry. I will be taking it.”

V moved to stand before him. He brought his cane up and swatted the shaft of it against Dante’s thigh. The blow lacked any kind of force behind it. Dante felt the vaguest sense of disappointment, that he’d been denied the sting.

“Turn,” V said. He twirled the tip of the cane, as if explaining the command to a child.

Dante sniffed.

“Where’s a guy like you get off trying to boss a guy like me around, anyway? I could snap you in half, toothpick.”

“You’d have done so before now if you were so inclined. You don’t have to pretend with me. Now, turn. Let me see you.”

He hesitated. His expression pinched, aware as he was of the blood that rushed to his face, bloomed across his shoulders. It felt like a brand that others might see, something that marked him. An easy read.

V watched him, his eyes lowered, an open look of expectation on his face. As though he had no doubt that Dante would obey him.

He turned, slowly.

“Good.”

He tried to imagine himself as V saw him. Shower damp, smelling of cheap soap. Stuffed into a ratty shirt and old trousers, still wearing his boots; his face gone unshaven, his hair dripping water, and stringy, and grey.

He finished a full rotation. V was staring at him, his expression naked in its desire. His hand was tight around the handle of his cane, enough so that Dante could see what little muscle definition he possessed bulge against the tattooed skin.

“You like what you see?” he asked, his voice low. A raw brand of heat had started to climb up his guts in anticipation of the answer.

“Do you doubt yourself so? You’ve been alone for too long, Dante.”

“Hey, fuck you.”

“Don’t get mouthy. Now, take off your boots.”

A trickle of sweat ran down the back of his neck. He swallowed, and quickly bent at the waist to comply. The laces felt thick under his fingers. He fumbled with them for what felt like ages before he kicked them off.

“A legendary demon hunter, whose name is coaxed from the mouths of devils only in hushed whispers, yet you still insist on pointless displays of masculinity. You're rather shorter without those heels. Does that bother you?”

“They’re comfortable.”

“Of course. That awful shirt, next. Why did you bother getting dressed?”

“What, and come down here with my dick out?”

“And come down here ready for me, without the pretense that you’re not a slut who’s gagging for it.”

He felt V’s words like the cold crack of an egg sliding down his back. For a moment a tide of anger, of indignation, rose inside of him; just as quickly, though, it transformed into some new feeling that filled his limbs out with warmth, that sent his cock fattening up inside his briefs.

“Got a mouth on you, huh?” he said. His voice was muffled, slightly, by the removal of his shirt.

“Nothing like yours.”

He tossed the shirt to a corner of the room. He didn’t care if he never found it.

V rose his cane to Dante’s shoulder. Tapped it, gently, to some unheard rhythm. Pressed it down. The weight was nothing, yet he felt it like an anchor, dragging him (down, down.) Dante lowered himself to the floor.

“You are obedient.”

“I'm not obedient -”

“Are you not on your knees?”

He huffed. There was nothing he could say.

“Open your mouth.”

He did. Two long fingers stroked over his tongue. The taste was of bitter salt, and it filled his mouth. They were neither rough nor gentle, rather, they were exploratory; taking stock of him, prodding at his teeth. They pressed forward, teasing at entering his throat, then pulled out entirely. V hooked his thumbs into Dante’s cheeks, forced his jaw to fall open. Stared down at him, into him, his face cast in the shadow of the curtain of his dark hair.

Discomfort settled in quickly. He disliked being looked at in this way, as though he were an animal. But from some place deeper still came the stirrings of arousal, and he hated it as much as he loved it, the contradictory nature of his desire.

V tsked. Dante felt his stomach fall. He wondered what he’d done to disappoint him.

“You'll need to do better than that.”

V fumbled with something that Dante couldn’t quite see. Then, a squirt of something viscous and cold, straight from a bottle and directly into his throat.

He gagged. Before he could move to spit whatever it was out, V crammed his fingers back inside of him. He found his head caught between a hand in his hair and the fingers in his mouth, which pushed forward into the wet, squelching mess at the opening of his throat. He recoiled automatically, and the hand in his hair tightened. The fingers pressed inward. His stomach rolled with a sudden sickness, and in a panic he thought he might suffocate.

“You can take it, can't you?”

Yes. Yes, he could. He needed to relax. He would survive aspirating a tablespoon of astroglide, easy, but the experience wouldn't be ideal.

He held himself still, focusing on the thrust of V’s fingers, how wide they felt fucking into him. Once they retreated, he took a deep, shuddering breath through his nose.  His entire body shook, and his muscles tensed and untensed with the stress. V watched on, impassive, at his weak struggling, the aborted heaving of his chest.

He tried to better the angle of his chin, so V's fingers wouldn't strike so painfully against his soft palette. To his surprise, he was allowed to do so. V’s grip on his hair lessened.  

“Beautiful, Dante. You take it very well, indeed.”

His weak heart fluttered. He had always been such a sucker for flattery.

V’s fingers thrust down to hook behind his tongue, as though he were trying to stretch Dante’s throat open. The pressure triggered another round of gagging. He coughed up saliva and thick strings of lubricant that spewed around the intrusion of V’s hand. His eyes were screwed shut, moist from tears brought on by this manner of abuse. He heard V chuckling, the sound low and sonorous.

“Very good.”

He removed his fingers. Dante lurched forward, coughing. A wet splat hit the floor at his knees.

“I must be certain there is space for me here.”

“Whatever you're packing, I can take it,” Dante panted, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Trust me.”

“It is not always a matter of what the body can take, my dear, but what it will.”

 

* * *

 

V handed his cane to Dante. Without it, it was more obvious that he was in pain; but he bore it with solid grace.

“I want you to hold it behind you. Don't let it touch the floor. You'll regret it if you do.”

Dante shivered. He took the cane, held it and tested its weight. He imagined what a more meaningful strike from it would feel like against his skin, what shapes and colors the bruises might take in the moments before they healed.

Dante rolled the cane between his fingers. Slowly, he swung it behind himself, held it parallel to the floor against the small of his back. Unlike handcuffs, he could not struggle against this kind of restraint; it was on him to keep his body, his strength, in check.

“You gonna punish if I fuck it up?”

“Oh,” V breathed. The shadow of his brow darkened, and he looked down on Dante and grinned. “Absolutely. Now, open up. Let us see what you have learned.”

V squirted another layer of lubricant into his mouth, this time on the flat of his tongue. Not deep enough that he could avoid the taste of it, which was chemical and unpleasant. He hated it. It was unnecessary, embarrassing, like his mouth was some kind of silicone toy that couldn't produce enough slick of its own. He supposed that was the point.

“Watch, Dante,” V said. He angled Dante’s face up, pulled him forward until there was barely the space of an atom between them. “Keep your eyes open.”

V undid the laces of his flies, pulled down the band of his trousers. Fished his cock out from the front of his pitch black briefs. A wave of saliva welled under Dante’s tongue. V’s cock was thick, impressively proportioned, jutting out proudly from where V held it firm in his fist. Not the thin, pretty thing that Dante had expected. The purpling head was leaking precome. Dante tried not to swallow, to keep his mouth slick and wet.

“You’re going to be good for me, aren’t you? A hole made for me to fuck.”

Dante nodded.

The broad head on V’s cock slipped past his lips to wallow in the puddle he’d made of lubricant and spit. Dante closed his eyes briefly, relishing the heavy weight of it. A familiar, long-missed sensation. He had always taken to cocksucking with a voracious appetite, but found suitable partners to be lacking.

His mouth was emptied. He opened his eyes in time for an open palm to strike him across the cheek. Dante gasped, in indignation rather than pain.

“The fuck?” he gurgled.

“Now, now. What mistake did you make?” V asked him, taking his chin in one hand.

“Uh, eyes open?”

“Eyes open.”

 _Hit me again_ , he thought, but could not bring himself to ask for it.

Once assured of Dante’s obedience, V rocked his cock back into him in one smooth motion. His hands moved both to the back of Dante’s head, twisted his hair in a grip that felt firm. Dante wouldn’t have thought he could be held so securely by someone so weak.

Dante settled on his haunches. Tested his grip on V’s cane, and relaxed his throat and jaw as best he could manage. After the way V had fucked his throat with just his fingers, he expected to be similarly brutalized by his cock. But once he’d breached Dante’s lips, his movements slowed to something hypnotic and slow, which brought neither pain nor pleasure.

It was strange.

Without any extremes to anchor him, Dante’s focus wandered. The minute details of V’s person became of intense interest; the creak of leather that punctuated each of his movements and the clean scent of the sweat on his skin. There was black ink even here, down by the jut of his hip bones, covering him in sharp points and whorls. The dark hair framing V’s cock and trailing up his thin stomach was neatly trimmed.

Then that, too, wore thin. He was dangerously close to having a thought. Of remembering what had brought V to him in the first place. He sighed, a loud exhalation through his nose, and tried to bob himself along V’s shaft, reach his tongue out to lap at his balls.

V’s thumbs shifted to the corners of Dante’s eyes. He rubbed at them, smearing round the tears he’d not shed when he’d been being fucked properly. He tilted Dante’s head up. Spit leaked from his mouth; he could do nothing to stop it.

“You don’t seem like you’re having much fun.”

Dante rolled his eyes.

“Did you roll your eyes at me?”

Dante glanced up, only just managing not to roll his eyes again. The answer was obvious. He swallowed around the head of V’s cock and nudged his chin forward so as to try to take him deeper.

V’s thumbs dug into his skin. He was pulled away from his cock entirely, his mouth left empty and dripping more spit and the watery remnants of lubricant.

“Are you getting bored, perhaps? You would do well to take this time and think on the nature of service. You exist, in this moment, for my use, Dante. Your own needs and desires are of no consequence.”

“That’s fine,” Dante said, raggedly. He coughed to clear some of the wetness from his throat. “That’s whatever. I’m into it. Just was expecting a little something more exciting, you know? All that pretense and build-up and you’re fucking my mouth like it’s made out of tissue paper.”

V laughed, and his smile was wide and indulgent. He brushed the head of his cock across the seam of Dante’s parted lips. Dante poked his tongue out, caught the salty taste of precome. When V didn’t shift away, he lapped at the slit.

“You are a man who has never learned patience.”

“And it’s worked out pretty well for me so far.”

V allowed Dante some time to suckle at him, to lathe the tip of his cock with wide swipes of his tongue. He stroked Dante’s face. Held him tight, by the jaw. His thumb toyed with the hair on Dante’s chin, and he rubbed the cool metal of his ring against Dante’s hot, swollen bottom lip.

“Yes. It has, hasn’t it?” he said, his voice distant. He parted Dante’s mouth with his thumb and forefinger, fed his cock back into the waiting heat of his mouth.

The next thrust of V’s cock was violent, sudden; his cockhead struck at the opening to Dante’s throat without penetrating, making him gag and shudder. Dante’s body reacted, lit up at the brilliant pain of it; his cock, which had flagged at V’s gentler treatment, going stone-hard in his trousers; his thighs and ass tensing. V drew back, repeated the abuse; he was so aroused he went dizzy from it, his throat seizing and eyes leaking tears.

Yes, he thought. Yes. This is what I want.

He moved his body into it, the ebb and flow. Made choking, pained noises, in the hopes that he might goad V into fucking him harder.

“My, but you are a wicked boy.”

_Boy._

A molten wash of shame and heat poured through him, starting in his guts and oozing outward. Oh, to be called in such a way. He nodded as best he could with V’s cock spearing his throat open, fucking it raw. Hoped he could convey that he’d liked it, and that he’d like whatever else V might call him, too.

“All the devils in hell fear you. If they could see you like this -”

V thrust forward, stoppering up his throat. Without thought, he reacted, trying to pull away; but V held his head down, forced Dante’s face flat against his pelvis. A thick wave of drool poured between them, forced from his lips by the position, by the space V insisted he take up inside of him. It dripped down his pectorals, into the sparse smattering of white hair on Dante’s chest.

The muscles in his neck contracted. He couldn’t breathe.

He wanted to drop the cane, raise his hands to the front of V’s thighs to dislodge him. He wanted to drop the cane to learn what his punishment might be, and what V would be like when meting it out. Urgency swelled alongside the burn in his lungs, the ache in his chest. He couldn’t _breathe._

“If they knew. A son of Sparda, so empty. So desperate to be full.”

The light in the room dimmed. A pain blossomed behind his eyes. He felt it, then, the edge of the Devil Trigger. Tasted the ash of the fire spread across his working tongue. There, now, it came, burning up his arteries, boiling the human weakness out of his very blood, there, rising up just beneath his skin. It was so close. So -

V took Dante’s head back by his hair, off of his cock. The edge of his cockhead scraped painfully as it dragged out of his throat; he coughed, wetly. V slammed Dante back down, as sword to a sheathe, groaning at the way Dante struggled to take it.

All thought had been soundly fucked out of him. Only a chorus of affirmation that beat to the sound of his heart, to the roar of the blood in his ears. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes.

As V rode Dante’s face, Dante rode the Devil Trigger; V forced him down, held him through the convulsions, and Dante’s body roared, sang, on the precipice of hell and ready to leap.

“You would never go unfilled. No one would suffer the lack of you, if they, fuck. If they knew.”

V’s hips stuttered. Abruptly, Dante was pulled away.

V slapped him, three times, hard enough to bring color to his cheeks. He took himself in hand, pumped his cock with measured strokes, tip to base, and he held Dante still so that he could not look away.

“Please,” Dante said, barely recognizable for the roughness of his throat.

“Keep your mouth open,” V growled, and bared his teeth. He jerked and came, striped Dante’s face and mouth with white.

“Ah, fuck,” Dante said, as a streak of come fell onto his eyelashes.

 

* * *

 

His cock was so hard. His mouth was slack, his throat sore. His chin and chest were soaked with thick globs of his own drool, with lubricant, with the ropey threads of V’s ejaculate. And still, in the solid grip of his hands, the weight of V’s cane kept him pinned.

He wanted V to put him down onto his knees, put his face to the carpet and fuck him. He wanted to come.

V looked down on him, at the trapped swell of his erection. Dante’s hips raised; as though V simply hadn’t seen, and now that he knew Dante was aroused, was desperate, he would rectify the situation.

V tilted his head, considering. Then he nudged Dante’s hard-on with one foot, and chuckled when Dante whined and tried to grind against it. The leather of his trousers had no give, and it hurt.

“I didn’t - I didn’t come,” Dante said, hating the weakness of his own voice. How fucked up and cock-drunk he sounded. He could barely concentrate for the throb of his dick, for how miserable he was for release.

“And you won’t.”

“That’s bullshit.,” he hissed. “That’s fucking - why the fuck not?”

“Beautiful. Don’t you know better by now?”

V cradled Dante’s face in the palms of his hands. Stroked his thumbs through the come-soaked stubble as though he were consoling a wild, uncontrollable thing. “You must wait because I said so.”

 

* * *

 

V had him stay on his knees for another twenty minutes before he was allowed to move, during which time he disappeared, presumably to wash. There was a vague stiffness in his joints when he finally rose. He was getting old.

Dante took another shower. He lingered only for minutes in the water, until he was clean. He stayed immersed in the spray, the temperature set to freezing, that the cold helped to convince his erection to wilt. He returned to the break room without dressing himself. V was waiting for him on the couch.

V patted his thigh. Dante positioned himself across the cushions and lay his head there. Once V could get it up again, Dante could ride him until he was breathless and sloppy, and he could put himself to bed wet.

Seeming to know exactly what Dante was thinking, V pinched his arm. Told him to settle.

“There are few greater pleasures for man than to conquer what was thought unconquerable,” V said, after some time.

Dante scoffed. “You didn't conquer shit.”

“Perhaps not yet."

They sat together for many long moments in silence. Dante turned his head, and let his eyes fall shut. He’d almost fallen asleep when a gentle touch stirred him.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

V didn’t halt the brush of his fingertips.

“Merely indulging myself. You may have guessed, but many of my interests lie in the proprietary. As it happens, I've taken to scrawling my name on things that which I consider to be mine.”

Dante thought about correcting him. He belonged to no one. He was alone, a singular being; had been for so long that he knew nothing else. But the looping patterns of V’s fingers on his skin became a comfort that lulled him, and he found he didn't mind enough to jeopardize their presence.

 

* * *

 

“You must feel him,” V said to him the next morning. The weather had turned from its unforgiving heat, and now a rainstorm was blowing through, the patter of raindrops loud on the roof and windows. “Your blood calls to him, and his to you. Even now.”

Dante stirred, pulling free from V’s cock. Soft, it slipped easily from his lips. V had ordered him to his knees, told him to keep it warm.

“Don’t talk about him,” Dante said. He licked his lips and tasted the salt, still there, from V’s spit and come. The blood from his lip, which had already healed from the slap that had split it. “The only thing you need to know is that I’m going to kill him this time. I’m going to make it stick.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> anyone wanting to yell about dmc, [please come to my tumblr inbox and let us scream together](http://tabakabhangigkeit.tumblr.com)!


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